


Made For You

by Stormashke



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 21:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16183337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormashke/pseuds/Stormashke
Summary: The same day seen from two separate perspectives.  Will they each see the same thing?





	Made For You

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This story truly would not exist but for the most excellent XVnot15 and her talented editorial red pen type skills that stopped this story from being deleted. It also would not exist without the ever patient AFey and all of our conversations regarding characters going rogue. Thank you both for all you do to make me better.
> 
> Special thanks always to UltraStreep for cheering me on and as always knowing when to smack me. You are loved more than you can know and you are most definitely worth it! ;)
> 
> Always with love to my Andy for putting up with me trying to wrestle the keyboard from her as I try to delete the story before she can save it and dealing with a moody writer. I love you!
> 
> And lastly for my readers because without you...where would the fun be?? Thank you all!
> 
> I do not own our ladies because if I did I'd be having private runway shows instead of writing. No profit was made although two keyboards and a mouse may have been casualties of war...

-Made For You

**__ **

**_ 9:00 am Miranda _ **

I stride into the office firing off orders, my eyes never meeting those of my assistants. My coat and bag tossed on the Second Assistant's desk as I complete the morning monologue. I have done this for roughly 400 days since you left.

I've never spared a thought for that number before today and yet, for some reason, sitting at my desk, I do the math. I add those days that have slipped away from me like coffee from a broken cup. I subtract those two days at the end of every week, where it feels as if I am the only soul working.

Maybe I am.

You left me eighteen months ago in Paris. The idea that you could possibly be anything like me so shocking and debilitating that you walked away.  Silly little girl.

Then came the query from Greg something-or-other from The Mirror. Did I know you? Had you worked for me? Well, how else was I to answer such ridiculous questions?

Did you know I saw you that day on the street? You were looking quite chic...so very unlike the poly-blend cerulean disaster in mules that I remember from your first days in my employ. I like to think you learned something from me. You looked professional and confident. I watched you wave and wondered at my propensity for masochism.

I could have acknowledged you. Oh yes, it would have cost me to do so, most certainly. But honestly, who would have dared say anything about it? I have asked myself if you knew that I wanted to reach out to you. I wanted to ask about that silly paper you chose. I would have given you so much more than The Mirror.

___

**_ 11:00 am _ **

This day is a nightmare. No one around me can concentrate, which, I suppose, is not surprising considering my own...distraction. The Art Department is having one of its meltdown moments. These are becoming so much more common, now that Nigel has become EIC of Men's Runway.

Did you know about his promotion? I believe the pair of you still speak to each other, although Nigel has been careful not to mention your name to me for quite some time. In fact, no one speaks your name to me. It really is rather odd, actually. I think they are not quite sure how to categorize you.

You wronged me, and yet walked away basically unscathed. Unheard of. If they only knew the truth. I am reasonably sure they would think I had quite lost my mind.

I will be out on time tonight. There is not a thing that could happen in this building that will keep me from my evening appointment. This is a day that has been a long time coming.

You have always been brave. I admit to having been intrigued when I received the package by courier. I saw your name and felt my stomach burn. What was this? I opened the package and found your note:

_Dear Miranda,_

_WAIT! If you're reading this, it means you haven't thrown the envelope away which means you're intrigued. That has to be good, right? I'm sorry I left you the way I did. Please keep reading. I know you don't care for trite and predictable, so now that I've gotten the obligatory apology out of the way let me say this. I left Runway. And I left you._

_Of those two things, there is only one that I want back. Can you guess which? Yes, I know...I can hear you say it, "Games now, Andréa?" But I really hope you realize which one it is._

_I found something that I can only think was meant to be yours, and since I can't see you traipsing through a street bazaar to find it...I thought I'd send it to you. This brooch, that I hope you realize is not only an apology but also an invitation, is the result of me walking around the street for hours and always coming back to the same spot. I was covering the event for work...glamorous, I know, right? I watched the vendors and this one woman worked on this piece from the beginning of the fair until the end. I kept coming back to her booth, just like I kept coming back to you._

_So by the end of the day, I knew it was for you. Copper wire and turquoise beads (yes, I'm sure it's turquoise!) flow together in a looping pattern. If you take a moment, which I really hope you will because regardless of what you think of me...you like beautiful pieces and this is that, right? Well, if you look at it, you will realize that the beads move around the wire. It changes the look, never the same thing twice. That part definitely reminds me of you. Always changing and being different things for different people._

_I can picture your fingers, moving the beads, while you sit in another board meeting or presiding over a run-through. I picture you in the evening, working on the book, fingers tracing over the wire. I see you, at Dalton, watching the twins during a recital, spinning the beads as you beam at your girls._

_Please accept it and please accept my apology. I'm not a lot older, but I'm hoping you'll see that I'm wiser. Now...for the invitation I mentioned earlier._

_Below, are my personal cell phone number and email address._

_I hope to hear from you. I live for it._

_Yours,_

_Andréa_

Well, to say I was shocked would be an understatement. And the brooch _was_ exquisite. Perhaps you really did learn from me. I waited a week to email you. You must have been waiting for it because within ten minutes you had replied.

We began to email and text, avoiding real time contact, we do not even speak on the phone. Without the pressure of face-to-face meeting or worrying about who was seeing what, we were free to speak. I learned a great deal about you these last six months.

I wear my brooch often and I do play with it just as you described in your note. But most often when I do it is because I am thinking of you.

___

**_  12:45 pm _ **

Well, the run-through could have gone worse, I suppose. Is it really so difficult to have everything ready when I ask for it? Now I'm sitting at my desk while Tracy has just brought me lunch and yet I find myself with no appetite.

My stomach is in knots, I confess. The closer we get to this evening I admit to being...nervous. Groundbreaking, isn't it? I'm sure the papers would pay a fortune for the news. Not that they will ever know. You would never tell them. I realized quite early on in our new interaction that I trust you. You never spoke to the press, although I'm sure you were offered a myriad of chances to advance by providing juicy tidbits about me. But you never did. Somehow I realized that I knew you never would.

We haven't actually spoken. The last time I heard your voice was the day you left. No, we text in the evenings, usually before bed. Or it's before bed for you, often I will push off working on the book to give you my complete attention, resulting in another hour or so of tasks for me after we sign off for the evenings.

We email through the day. I don't know why we haven't talked. Neither of us has suggested a phone call. We share ourselves in these black and white words on little screens.  It's odd that though I haven't heard your voice in ages, I can hear it in every line of text you send me.

I can picture you blowing your bangs out of your eyes when I exasperate you with my half answers and evasions. I see you laugh, open and sincere when I tease you. You've never cared if you're too loud or too genuine for the room. No, you have always been just you.

Eventually, we talked about Paris and I began to understand. You felt you were losing yourself, losing the things that made you Andréa...and that is completely unacceptable to me. I remember watching the dots on the screen as I typed my reply. You were nervous of my reaction.

_10:47 pm Andréa: Miranda? Did you go to bed?_

_10:49 pm Andréa: Did you throw your phone against the wall? Or in a fountain?_

_10:50 pm Andréa: MIRANDA!_

I remember being amused at such dramatics until I realized you most likely thought they were the truth or at least some version of the truth.

_10:51 Miranda: Feeling the loss of one's self to a vocation can be the most frightening or invigorating thing in the world but at least if you love what you're doing, it feels more like a merging. I can only imagine how it feels, if as you say...you felt as if you were drowning. It doesn't change the fact that you were good at what you did. If you can look in the mirror and no longer recognize yourself and you are not sure why this change has occurred...well then...in that case, you have absolutely done the correct thing in walking away. Runway has changed me in many ways, but I say with utter surety I have changed it as well. That merging is what I see in the mirror each day._

_10:52 Miranda: Andréa...do stop being so dramatic. It really is unbecoming. That's all._

That night began a turning point in our talks. I believe that perhaps you were able to relax. I find that idea interesting, as I do not usually inspire such feelings in people.

I check the time. Six hours to go.

Ironic.

_____

**_ 3:30 pm _ **

The email notification chimes on the computer while I'm looking through the upcoming sketches by Thakoon. His work is innovative and strong, but I wonder if he has the staying power for this industry. The brightest flames burn the hottest. He must take care not to burn out.

I check the notification and my stomach clenches. It's from you, of course. Are you cancelling on me? Is your work going to impinge on our evening? I realize how hypocritical I am for resenting the idea that this is something that might take you away from our planned evening. It doesn't change anything, but at least I recognize it.

With trepidation, I open the email:

_From: ASachs82@themirror.com_

_Subject: Don't Panic!_

_Miranda,_

_I just heard from our mutual acquaintance (think plaid suits and great taste in shoes) that the Art Department screwed up. And before you run off to behead him...I asked him how your day was going. I know he's a few floors below you at Men's Runway, but come on. We both know he's the gossip champion of Elias-Clarke._

_I also know you're getting ready for the Spring issue, but I'm really hoping you won't panic and cancel on me._

_Just hear me out. I realize how important it is for you to make everything perfect, but even you need a night off now and then.. Don't cancel! I believe that you can sort out whatever's wrong and still make it tonight._

_If you need to be late, that's fine....just...just...tell me you'll be there. At La Bernadin tonight at 7  pm or 8 or 9. It's ok, I'll wait for you._

_It's only that I'm really looking forward to seeing you._

_Don't panic!_

_Yours in Hope,_

_Andréa_

I'm amused at the fact that Nigel is apparently feeding you information. Instead of upsetting me, I find that it warms my chest that you would check in on me even if it is by proxy. I'm concerned that you did not just email me directly but I can understand your desire to get the "scoop" as it were from Nigel. I pull up my email to reply.

_From MPriestlyEIC@Runwayeliasclarke.com_

_To: ASachs82@themirror.com_

_Re: Don't Panic!_

_Andréa,_

_When have you ever known me to panic? Of course we are still on for this evening. I am not going to allow the Art Department's hysteria to impact my day or my plans further than they already have._

_While I do appreciate you showing a certain amount of...shall we say...flexibility...I do believe our original time frame to still be acceptable._

_That's all._

_MP_

Smirking, I turn my attention back to the disaster of a layout the Art Department is trying to pass off for Spring.

Three and a half hours.

___

**_ 6:47 pm _ **

I sit with my back to the wall at my usual table. I wonder if getting this table is a mistake. Will it evoke memories of you doing my bidding? Will it put you on the defensive? Is it a power play on my part?

In my previous relationships and yes...I do classify this as a relationship...I would have had no compunctions about trotting out a little power. With you, I find that I want to start this on a much more equal footing.

The very notion surprises me, I never worried about such things in any of my previous relationships, not with Gregory or Stephen, and certainly not with Karen. I wonder, would you be surprised to know that I've had previous female lovers? I suppose, at some point, we will have to have _the talk_. The one everyone in a new relationship has. The have you....well, I have...but have you, discussion that never bodes well.

Sighing restlessly, I fiddle with the brooch on my chest. Just as you knew I would when you gave it to me.

I am so much older than you. Why doesn't that seem to bother you? Why doesn't it bother _me_? Before I can delve any further into the thought I hear a small disturbance at the entrance. Reflexively, I look up and there you are.

My eyes take you in, in one slow lingering pass. Deep brown leather coat in the trench style, lovely crimson pullover, structured DKNY black pants...professional yet comfortable, with sensible leather kid boots slightly modest on the heel...two inches at best.

All together, a very pleasing look.

I realize you've stopped crossing the restaurant and are just watching. You're waiting for something. At first, I'm perplexed and then it strikes me just _what_ you might be waiting for. I try to school my features into that same impassive mask I've used for decades, but I can't hide the joy in my eyes.

I nod very slightly and your face breaks out into a wide grin. At my gesture, you continue to cross the floor, coming to stand directly before the table. I rise to greet you with a gentle kiss to the cheek. No faux air kisses for you. I feel your surprise and while you jump, just a little, you recover admirably. You're the first to speak.

"Miranda."

_____

**_ 8:23  am  Andy _ **

I take my coffee and bagel, juggling my messenger bag with my laptop in it as I make my way towards the Mirror. I don’t even know why I bought the bagel. My stomach is a nervous mess and my mind is running in circles. I feel like today is going to last forever.  Either that or its going to fly by and I’ll be unprepared for tonight. I don’t even know which one would be worse. Hell, that’s a lie. Meeting up with Miranda Priestly and being unprepared? Disaster. But I mean, we’ve been talking all this time. So you must want to actually see me tonight?  Well that, or it’s one long revenge plot. But I can’t see you wasting that much time and effort. No, if you didn’t want to talk to me you simply wouldn’t. End of story. Game over. _That’s all_. 

I step into the foyer of the Mirror and the scuffed linoleum amuses and settles me. No marble tiles here! When I get into the cramped elevator with at least ten other people I imagine how you’d react. I imagine laser blue eyes raking over the occupants of the elevator. What am I thinking? You’d never get into an elevator with this many people. Just by virtue of being you everyone else would have emptied the car, leaving you to journey upward alone.

It doesn’t matter where you go. People just react that way to you. I know you’ve worked hard to build that reputation, but I don’t think it suits you. You’re far warmer than most people give you credit for.  

I feel my nerves ramp up as my brain once again reminds me just how far out of my league you really are. Not for the first time I wonder what I was thinking when I sent you that brooch. I remember that day, wandering around the bazaar, trying to find something interesting to report on…something that would stand out. I saw this little woman working on the most intricate jewelry I’d ever seen. 

She was working in copper, beads and glass. For some reason, I kept coming back to her booth. By the end of the day I’d decided to write an article on her work. And when I left, I had that brooch in my pocket. Sitting up that night, I must have written at least six drafts of the letter I finally sent to you.

I honestly never expected to hear from you.  I hoped, but never expected. I was working from home when I got your email. I spilled my coffee and knocked my cell phone to the floor when I saw the email address.  For all that fuss, I spent a good five minutes debating on whether or not to open the email. I actually sat there looking at it, peeking through my fingers like a kid looking at something they shouldn’t before I realized how silly I was acting. Eventually, I opened it after giving myself a stern lecture about being a child. I’m glad I did, and I will never forget what you wrote: 

 

_Andréa,_

_I have no idea why you felt the need to provide me with a gift. Although you are correct, it is a lovely piece. You are also correct in that I hate the trite and the predictable. I do find that you are neither of those things. I am pleased that you realize your actions that day were unprofessional and in that regard I do accept your apology._

_M_

_P.S. Did you bother getting the name of the artist of this piece for your silly little paper? You remember how I enjoy fostering new…talent. Or I should hope you remember._

 

I sat there staring at the screen after reading the email, and couldn’t quite bring myself to understand. Were you trying to say you had fostered _my_ talent? It took me only a few moments to respond back to you with the name of the artist.  

It wasn’t until you texted me that evening that I figured out you had actually realized that I wanted more from you than just your Runway persona. I was never all that enthralled with Runway. It was filled with the Emilys of your world. I just found it empty and vague. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I know how hard you all work to produce the magazine, but let’s face it. To Emily, the magazine is the world, maybe even the universe.  

But you? The woman behind Runway…I found you fascinating. I still do. You are worldly and smart. Fashion is your world, but you make it exist for you as part of the greater whole. Not many can do that. There are so many different sides to you, so many different looks.  

Just like your brooch. Never the same…ever changing…always adapting. How could I not fall for you? 

I reach my desk and set up my laptop, resisting the urge to email you. I’ll see you soon enough. 

I hope.

___

**_ 10:30  am _ **

I’m trying to type up my latest article on the current bid to cut funding to public schools, but all I find myself doing is checking the time on the little right-hand corner of my laptop screen. Is this day over yet? I can’t believe you agreed to meet me tonight. Well…I guess I can. We’ve talked almost every day since that first night when you texted me. Talk about a shock. When your number came up on my phone I squeaked. Yep, a literal squeal, like a kid on Christmas. It was almost more unbelievable than when you emailed me earlier that day. Because that was sort-of work-related, right?   That was a professional note from former colleagues.

But you texting me? At home? In the evening?  

Definitely not work-related. My heart pounded and I actually checked my hair before I replied to your text. Yep, I did that. I was hoping we could actually talk and establish some kind of relationship outside of Runway, but I never actually expected to see your name on something so…I dunno…normal as a text message. So when I did, it threw me for a loop.

I smile to myself and remember the last day I saw you. The day I got the job with the Mirror. I remember waving. Then I remember thinking how much of an idiot I was.  Did you know that I saw you?

Miranda Priestly does not wave. And she certainly would not acknowledge ex-assistants who leave her high and dry during the busiest week of her year.  But apparently she does provide back-handed references to get said ex-assistants into their dream profession. But that’s not true either, is it? I’ve never heard of you doing it before. Neither had Nigel.  

When I contacted him after the whole “Paris Incident” as he’s taken to calling it, he was shocked and amazed. I remember what he said because it struck me just how different you acted towards me. I just never actually realized it until he pointed it out. 

_“Six,” Nigel said in a voice that you would use to explain to a toddler, “Miranda does not just give out references. What do you think she is? A drive-through window? You think you can have it your way or some such nonsense?”_

_“Of course not, “ I had snapped because honestly, from what I heard, it wasn’t much of a reference. Her greatest disappointment? What about those losers she had married? I bet none of them could have gotten her coffee hot or her dry cleaning situated. I bet none of them could get her that hour in the evening she needed to be there for the girls’ activities._

_But no. I was her greatest disappointment. Yeah, right._

_“Then how can you not understand just what a big deal it is that she provided one for you? Wake up, Six.” Nigel’s voice revealed his hurt, “You were special to her. Not just to her but to me and you walked out.”_

_“Nige, I had to leave. I am sorry for the way I left, but I had to. I was losing everything that I loved about myself. At the Mirror I’m doing something I really enjoy.” I remember hearing him sigh on the line and I used my sweetest tone, “But I’m doing it with a lot more style these days.”_

_His sniff came through loud and clear, but at least he was slightly mollified. “Well, kid, you should think about at least sending a thank you card or something. I’m surprised she didn’t blacklist you.” Nigel continued, “But then again, like I said, you were special to her. Certainly not just another assistant. To be honest, she’s been in a rotten mood since you left.”_  

That was the conversation that made me start to think that maybe I should reach out. So I guess we have Nigel to thank for my boldness?  I wonder what you would say to that?  Maybe I'll tell you tonight.

____

**_ 1:20  pm _ **

 My co-workers tried to get me to go to lunch with them, but I’m not interested. I can’t focus on very much of anything. I keep seeing you every time I close my eyes. Or I drift off into a daydream of what's going to happen tonight.

I have two recurring daydreams. The first one is that you greet me tonight and we sit down to dinner. Sitting there in front of everyone, you proceed to verbally obliterate me in front of the entire restaurant. It’s so vivid I can actually hear your voice as it softens, becoming more deadly. I see those ice chip eyes of yours flash as you read out every shortcoming I have. I hear your trademark “That’s all” as you get up and go.

It doesn’t make a difference to you how hard I tried. You don’t care how much of _me_ I put into your days. All you see is your _Greatest Disappointment_. It’s so real to me that I can feel my throat clog with sobs as my eyes start to water sitting here at my desk. My hand trembles and my stomach fills with fear and dread. 

The feeling I get at the thought of being a disappointment to you all over again is the best diet ever. You should run a piece about it in Runway. Everyone would be model-thin in a month.

I’m this close to emailing you to call the whole thing off, but then I start to think. You wouldn’t do that to me. I mean…you’re certainly capable of it. I just don’t think you would do that to me. I remember the night you found out I had the flu. I hadn’t been as quick to respond as I normally was and when you found out why, you actually sounded concerned. 

_9:13  pm Miranda: Andréa have you been to see the physician? The flu is nothing to trifle with._

_9:14  pm Andy: No, I’ve been sleeping all day, Miranda. I’ll be ok. How was your day?_

_9:16  pm Miranda: Do not try to distract me with trivial small talk. You will make an appointment to be seen tomorrow, Andréa. That was not a request. If your own physician cannot see you then email or text me and you will see my personal physician._

_9:16 pm Miranda: That’s all!_

I remember how much better that made me feel. Like you were actually watching out for me. Whenever I have that first daydream I always remember those messages. My second daydream involves you, me and dinner once again. But this time it’s not at a restaurant. I don’t know why I keep seeing you having dinner with me in my apartment…but I do.

It’s totally crazy because you would never spend any time at my place. The paint is peeling, the hardwood floors are ancient and scuffed and the walls have cracks in them. Not to mention it’s about the size of the foyer in the townhouse! But I still see you there, having dinner with me at my small dinette table. Candles and soft music. I can picture you laughing at something I’ve said. Ok, so maybe laughing is far-fetched…but maybe smirking. Definitely smirking. Or that sexy half grin you get when you're genuinely amused at something. God, I love that grin.

But anyway, this fantasy of mine always ends the same way. You reach for my hand and I feel the electric tingle race up and down from my palm all the way to my shoulder. You pull me to my feet and we’re dancing, like it's the easiest thing in the world. And if there’s more to this daydream…well…I try not to think about it while sitting at my desk at work.  But it's fair game for those times after we've said goodnight and I can't fall asleep yet.

Yeah, I get a lot of mileage out of that particular fantasy.

Sighing, I break out of my trance and check the time again. I can’t believe that after thinking I'd never see you again we're going to have dinner tonight. After I left in Paris and got the job with the Mirror, I tried to keep up with what was going on with you. I watched Page Six for news on your divorce. 

Can I tell you how much of a colossal ass I think Stephen is? Every time something came in about his claims of marital abandonment, I wanted to scream. But you…you never looked anything less than put-together, calm and elegant. Back then, when all the court stuff was happening, I wanted to tell you how much better off you were without him. He was never right for you, Miranda. I’ve wanted to ask you how you ended married to him. I also want you to know how glad I am the divorce is final. It must be a relief to you.

 I have so many questions about you and your girls. About your life and everything you've done with it up until this point. But rule number one has always been you never ask Miranda anything. You’ve been different since we started actually talking, though. Not exactly an open book because yeah…one book just wouldn’t cut it.  

I can’t really explain how you’ve changed. Maybe it’s just the setting? Usually we don’t start talking until well after 9 pm. It’s become my nighttime ritual. I get dressed in my old pajamas and make a cup of peppermint tea. I lock the door, turn out the lights and climb into bed. Then I  wait for my phone to light up when you text. 

It sounds stupid to say that I live for those two hours every night when we “talk.” But lately, I’ve started to feel like I really do…live for that time, I mean.  I wonder what it’s like for you and I wonder if I’ll have the guts to ask you about it tonight. 

Five and a half hours from now.  

Oh boy…

 ____

**_ 3:15 pm _ **

I hang up with Nigel and my adrenaline spikes. Why today? Why does the Art Department have to have one of their many fuck-ups today? To be fair, they screw things up a lot more regularly since you promoted Nigel, but why today?! Maybe the universe just hates me? I groan and put my head down on my desk.

 Ok, defeat is not an option. If working for you taught me anything it was to not give up until there was literally nothing left to try.

Hello...Harry Potter manuscript?

I bite my lip while I try to come up with a plan. I don't want to make you feel guilty. I just want to make you want to have dinner with me more than you want to fix _Runway_. Hmph, good one, Sachs, like that will ever happen.

Maybe...I don't have to make you choose. I'm sure whatever is going wrong over there is something you can handle in the three hours or so before our date. I stop myself again....because when did we ever decide this was a date? If I'm honest with myself I've been considering it a date ever since we began planning it a month ago. I still can't believe it took a month to coordinate our schedules.

It was during one of our evening conversations. I remember because I was sipping the white wine you had recommended as being "delightful while maintaining a price point even you should be able to manage, Andréa." I sipped my wine and wondered what it would be like to share a bottle with you. I decided enough was enough...I just went for it.

**_10:42 pm Andy: Miranda, don't you think it would be nice to maybe have dinner sometime?_ **

**_10:42  pm Andy: I mean of course we wouldn't have to go anywhere special. I understand it would be difficult for you to be seen out with an ex-employee._ **

**_10:43  pm Andy: You know what? I'm just going to stop talking now. Forget I said anything...ok?_ **

**_10:45  pm Miranda: Andréa, do stop your babbling. I did not know that a person could babble by text and yet you manage...once again...to carry off the impossible._ **

**_10:46 pm Miranda: Dinner sounds like a lovely idea. I'm rather booked up for the next two weeks though, perhaps after that? And of course we will go somewhere "special." Also, it does not bother me what might or might not be inferred from our being out together in public. My divorce became final two months ago and as you know, I have never cared what the press think._ **

I was completely flabbergasted that I had basically just asked you out, but I was even more blown away by your words. You actually wanted to go out in public with me. I don't know why I assumed that if we were to ever become friends or something even approaching friends that you would want to hide that fact. I should have known better. You have a tendency to confront everything head-on. So maybe that's what I should do?

I don't want to start...whatever...this is...off by trying to manipulate you. I want you to know that I want to see you. I can wait if you need to be late and I won't berate you for it. I won't judge you because I'll just be happy to see you, nervous as hell, probably, but still...really happy. I'll email you and ask you not to cancel. Simple, direct, to the point but still letting you know that I'm looking forward to seeing you.

How hard can it be to be direct with the Devil?

Three email drafts later and I've sent it off.

It takes less than five minutes for you to reply. Your tone is amused and exasperated, but you're actually teasing me. It can't be as bad as Nigel made it out to be if you're teasing me. That's excellent because in less than four hours we are going to be having our dinner sort-of-date. And it sounds like you're looking forward to it, too.

I'm pretty sure it's going to take at least that long for me to stop grinning like an idiot.

____

**_ 6:52 pm _ **

I arrive at La Bernadin and spend a nervous few minutes pacing in front of the door. I can't remember the amount of times I called in your name to reserve your table. Sometimes it was for a working dinner, you and some hot designer or some nights I would make the reservation for you and Stephen.

I never thought that I would be the one that some assistant would be reserving a seat for. It kind of throws me for a loop. I used to be the one that scheduled your comings and goings down to the minute. Now someone else is doing that. And they had to find time in your schedule for me. Almost as if I'm your contemporary or some kind of equal to you.

Is that my problem? Is that why I'm sitting out here wringing my hands and worrying? Is it because maybe you're actually seeing me as more than just the smart, fat girl? You wouldn't waste your time with someone who wasn't your equal.

You once said to me that I could do anything. Sure, you were being sarcastic but I believe you actually meant it. Or you did by the time I left you in Paris. Why am I making this so difficult on myself? You're the one who chose the restaurant. You've agreed to meet in public, and honestly, you've seemed like maybe you've been looking forward to it.

Of all people, I know just what it takes for you to have a free evening. If I'm a hundred percent honest with myself, I would have to admit that I never expected you to actually _want_ to spend time with me in a social way. Even when we were texting or emailing, there was always an element of holding back.  It was one of those things…you could text or email while doing fifty other things. But dinner…I would have your complete attention. We would talk. Each of us focused on the other. Would you actually care what I have to say? You certainly gave every indication that you would. I sigh again, blowing my bangs out of my eyes once more. I peer into the restaurant. It doesn't matter that I can't see your table from the door.

You're inside. It's not just the idea that you're always fifteen minutes early that lets me know you're already here. I just know. And I'm standing outside like a coward. You would definitely be disappointed in me, outside dithering, instead of tackling the situation head-on. That does it. I turn towards the door and walk in.

I smile at Jean Claude. He remembers me from my assistant days. The small nod, though, is different. He gestures to me to follow him, obviously, I’m expected. You actually used my name as your guest? I feel the butterflies in my stomach turn to pterodactyls. 

I touch his arm and shake my head gently at him. I don’t need to be escorted.  I know my way. I could find you even if I were blind, I think. I’d feel you. I start to make my way over to you just as you look up. I can’t help it, I stop and wait. 

Maybe it’s a hold-over from my days working for you. You’re approval always meant so much. I see the confusion pass over your features…so subtle most people wouldn’t even notice it, but I do. It’s a tightening around your eyes and mouth. You get frustrated with yourself when you think you don’t understand something. 

I stay still and smile slightly. 

Suddenly, that half smirk is back and you look me up and down slowly. I resist the urge to twirl for you. You nod…just a tiny one, but it’s enough and I move towards you. You stand up to greet me and that’s also weird. That alone signals the change in our…relationship. Is that the word? 

You reach out to lay your hands on my shoulders…I prepare for the air kisses I’ve seen you give to clients and associates. I’m practically electrocuted by the shock of feeling your lips on my cheek as you actually _kiss_ me. Once on each cheek.  

I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I have literally only one thought in my head. With no warning, it tumbles from my mouth. 

“Miranda.”

___

**_ 7:02 pm Andy _ **

 You gesture towards my chair and I realize you're waiting for me to sit. I try to smile as I take my seat, watching you seat yourself gracefully across the table from me. The waiter approaches and you hold up a hand waving him off.

“Andréa,” You say, and I feel my body break out in chills. I haven’t heard you say my name….in so, so long. I imagine that you can see the small sparks and goose bumps that I feel like are surrounding my skin. I feel my nerves roar back in full force as you sit watching me. You aren’t moving except for your eyes, those bright blue eyes are roaming over me. 

I watch when you absently reach up and play with your necklace before your fingers land on the pin on your lapel. My eyes widen and I feel an impossibly wide grin threaten to split my face open. “You do like it, don’t you?” My voice is a little breathless and I see that twisting of your lips that you do when you're trying not to laugh at something. 

“Of course not, Andréa. I am quite in the habit of wearing pieces that I do not particularly care for.”

Your voice drips sarcasm, but somehow it still sounds warm…inviting. Yes, you’re teasing me, but it’s almost as if you’re inviting me to share the joke.  

“Well, thank God for that. I’d hate to think you actually enjoyed something I’d picked out for you.” I tease right back and have the satisfaction of seeing you shake your head slightly. 

“It’s quite lovely, actually. You showed remarkably good taste. I had Nigel contact her…the artist. A’Lin is her name.” Miranda smirked fully now. “How does it feel to know you’ve made someone else’s career?” 

I feel the blood drain from my face, “Yo-you think she’s that good? You liked it that much? I thought-I mean, I thought it was pretty and well-made, but I didn’t think you would…” 

“Recognize talent when I see it?” you asked, your blues eyes glinting in the candlelight. Finally, you allowed the waiter to approach. “Wine, Andréa?” 

Nodding hesitantly, I gesture for you to go ahead. Smirking now, you order what sounds to be a very expensive, very French wine.  

“Do you have any objections to my ordering for us?” 

I shake my head and realize that once again you aren’t actually judging me. “I’m a little out of my depth here.” I manage the words and watch as your eyes soften. 

“You managed in Paris rather well, as I recall,” you say gently. 

“No. Really, I didn't...just wherever I went I either had you or Nigel to translate for me.” I mutter, suddenly ashamed. All at once, I’m wondering again how I could even think we would be equals, you know so much more than I do and I feel my heart start to hammer. 

“Do you know I did not learn to speak French properly until I was 35?” You ask in that offhand way you have and I’m left gaping, “Oh yes, I didn’t learn until I had to actually give a speech in French. My point Andréa, is that the inability to speak a language that is not your native tongue makes you no less capable, no less compelling, it simply is another fact about Andréa Sachs.” 

I feel my heart slow,  you mean it, you really, honestly do, it’s one of the rules. Miranda never says anything she doesn’t mean. So I watch the waiter approach and pour the wine while you casually order for us both. I try to follow it, but I give up after about the third word. To me, it's like music that I don't understand and I feel relaxed as the ebb and flow of your voices flows over me.

After the waiter leaves you tilt your head, “I ordered a tasting menu for us to share, a small bit of everything. As I recall, you didn’t eat very much in Paris, I can't imagine you were able to truly enjoy the food. My heart warms because the tone of your voice isn’t accusatory, “No, I was distracted in Paris. I didn’t get to do nearly all I had wanted to. And then, well….you know the rest.” 

You put your chin in your hand as you gaze at me, “What distracted you in Paris, Andréa?” 

Your eyes are bright and knowing, and I realize it’s now or never. I take a deep breath, “You did, Miranda. It’s always been you. From the first day I saw you across your desk. I’ve always wanted something more from you, at first I thought it was your approval. Then I thought…I just want to be useful, but that wasn’t it either.” I reach across the table, brave now, I take your hand, “Finally, after Paris I figured it out. I just wanted you. Only I knew I'd messed up and no matter how I tried I couldn't find a way to get back to you. Not until I saw that brooch.” 

I feel you squeeze my fingers, “It’s always just been you.”

___

**_ 7:48  pm Miranda _ **

I watch while she tastes her food. To me it has become pedestrian. I eat here at least once a month for Runway business, it's the place to be seen, to linger and make connections. It's been too long since I've taken the time to appreciate that the food here really is extraordinary.

Her eyes close in bliss as she samples bite after bite, when they open, they are amber, illuminated from within, divine. Through her experience, I rediscover my own joy in food, as something more than sustenance or a tool to be used so that I have the stamina to continue through a grueling set of meetings.

"You're staring," she says softly.

Caught off guard, I answer truthfully, "You're beautiful, Andréa. How could I not stare?"

She blushes prettily, a dusting of rose across her cheeks, "Well, it's probably been awhile since you saw someone have a foodgasm. I mean..." Suddenly, she must have realized what she said because she closes her eyes and covers them with her hand.

The same hand she used to hold mine barely thirty minutes ago. "I'm sorry, Miranda. Here I am trying to show you just how much I've matured and-"

"Enough.  Never apologize for being you. I find it quite refreshing to have someone around who knows their own mind and doesn't necessarily worry about what I may think of them as a result."

Her eyes grew wide before she replied, "I do worry about what you think. You must know that. All this time we've spent talking, I've been trying to change your opinion of me."

Tilting my head to the side, I regard her in the candlelight, "Here I thought you were just trying to get my...attention. Why ever would you want to change my opinion? Silly girl." I chide.

Leaning back in her chair she looks...defeated, "That's just it, Miranda. I'm not just some silly girl. I've been trying to get you to realize that I'm not like Emily or Serena or Jess or any of the others. I appreciate you as the strong business woman you are, but I'm not some ridiculous sycophant." Tossing her napkin to the table, she continues, "I'm also not a child who doesn't know what she wants. I came to terms a long time ago with the idea that I wanted a woman. That said woman is you, Miranda, and if you can't see that by now, then I guess I really am silly."

She pushes her chair back and stands, "Thank you for meeting with me tonight. I won't take any more of your evening." I stare up at her. What is she doing?

"For the record," She says as she pulls the fashionable trench coat on, "You look beautiful tonight. You look beautiful every night." Without another word she turns and heads in the direction of the door but not before I've seen the sadness and dare I say disappoint steal over her features.

That breaks the odd paralysis that has settled over me. I quickly move to follow her, nodding at the Maître'D. He knows to bill my account, I cannot be bothered with such small matters right now. I step outside and see her a few doors down, leaning against the brick exterior of another building.

"Andréa," I say reaching her side, laying my hand against her flushed cheek. Looking into her eyes, I can't help it, I lean forward and brush my lips against her own. Right there in the middle of the street.

I feel the gasp from her, her hands gripping my upper arms tightly. I lean in again, and this time she meets me halfway. I hear the strangest sound, a choked off gasp and realize its coming from me. She deepens the kiss. My brave Andréa. Now I am clinging to her as her tongue massages my own. Her hands have moved to my back, her fingers splayed against me, tugging me into her.

Finally, I draw back to look into her eyes, deepest chocolate now, darkened by passion, "Forgive me." I realize it comes out as a demand, even as I meant it as a request. She must realize it too because she smiles and then she laughs, finally, she hugs me to her again.

"Will you come home with me, Andréa?" My lips against her ear, my words are a whisper, "I understand if it's too soon. This is only our first date after all..."

She pulls back to look at me, "Six months I've been hoping for this. It's not too soon, but I'm touched that you would be considerate enough to ask." She kisses me again, quick and hard, "Call Roy, Miranda. Take me to the townhouse."

I nod slightly before doing exactly as she commands.

____

**_ Later _ **

I feel you moving inside of me. Oh god, how can I possibly last this way? All of your shy awkwardness disappeared the moment we entered my bedroom. You undressed me with an ease that makes me jealous and has me wondering have you been with many women? I open my mouth to ask, but all that comes out is a gasp when your mouth closes over my breast.

My hands tangle in your long chestnut hair and I try to hold you in place. I push myself further into your mouth and hear the sinful sound of your muffled laughter against my skin. You pull back and your eyes...your eyes are so dark now that I feel as if I could find eternity in them.

"Let me, Miranda." You say softly, as you settle me on the bed. I tense when I feel you slip down past my naval, leaving sharp nips and wet kisses in your wake. You come to rest between my thighs and the view alone is enough to make me quiver.

"Are you ok?" you ask quietly. I can only nod and you smile mischievously at me, ducking your head to rest against my upper thighs. "Just...tell me...if I do anything you don't like. You already know I'm very good at taking...direction."

When you utter the last word you bring your fingers to my center and I almost come undone from that alone. Slowly, so slowly, you glide through the heat you find. Older than you, it takes me just a little longer to become wet...a fact I've been concerned about since the moment we started up the stairs but you don't seem to mind. You're tender and gentle. Teasing me with light touches as my desire rises and I call out for you. You trace my folds and I marvel at the wetness I feel you gathering.

You look up again, "Miranda," you say...both a question and a demand. You hold still until I meet your eyes. Deliberately you lick your fingers slowly, bringing them into your mouth, watching me the entire time. I moan at the sight. Smirking now, you lower your head again. I prepare for another onslaught, but I'm not ready when I feel your tongue against me, delicate but demanding, as you tease my aching clit. My vision goes dark for a moment as you suck insistently.

I feel my hips rocking. My body is moving to the pace set by your tongue and I can't find it in myself to be ashamed. I need you. You know it...I can tell that you do because just before the pleasure becomes pain you are there, your fingers slipping effortlessly inside of me I tense at the intensity before I relax into the feeling.

"God, Andréa, yes. Please more, just like that." I'm begging you and how's this for a first? I do not mind in the least. As long as you continue to do...what you're doing...I will happily do whatever you ask. It's not long before I feel that coil spring of tension. I'm sure you realize it...my thighs are trembling and I'm bucking hard into your mouth, but I try to warn you anyway. Try to be considerate...

"Co-coming. Oh, yes...now!"

You stay with me. Your mouth against me...your fingers inside of me...you pace me...you guide me and eventually you bring me down.

After long moments, I tug at your hair, "Up here...with me." The breathless quality of my voice doesn't surprise me, nor does the alacrity with which you comply with my request.

You rest for long moments and I feel you becoming heavy against me. "Andréa, you are not to fall asleep.  Are you serious?"

I feel you stir and feel the flush of heat from your skin against mine, "Sorry..."

I shift looking down at you, "Do not be sorry. Just be ready."

You blink owlishly up at me, "Ready for what?"

You really are too adorable, "It's my turn now..."

_­­­­___

Her smile is teasing but anticipation lights up her eyes.  I talk a good game but it's been many years since I've been with a woman.  Perhaps it's like matching the perfect outfit?  One never forgets the fundamentals?

She senses something...some hiccup in my demeanor because she takes my hand and places it on her breast, "Touch me.  All I need is for you to touch me."

Well, one cannot be given a clearer directive than that.  I move into her as my hand palms her ample breast, fingers tugging her nipple.  She gasps, arching her throat, I take full advantage, leaning to kiss her there.

The scent of her skin...the feel of her pulse fluttering wildly while my fingers tug and pull the stiff peaks of her breasts, intoxicating.  I feel drunk...I want everything at once and I have no patience to go about achieving my goal.

I release her breast and slide my hand low...across her hip while she shifts impatiently beneath me.  I take a deep a breath and dip my fingers into her center.  I pull back to watch her face while my fingers trace nonsensical patterns in the moisture I find.  She's hot and wet and I feel my eyes glaze over.  Liquid silk.  Of their own accord my fingers glide over her sensitive nub and she writhes beneath me.  She's panting now...with her hair splayed against my pillow...her body beneath me...my hand in her heat.

Has there ever been a more glorious sight?  I think not.

Her cries are coming faster now...far less coherent.  Carefully, I slip a single finger inside of her.  Slowly, I realize it's not likely that I will hurt her...but I am...nervous. She pushes down on my hand forcing me in deeper and I sigh as I'm surrounded by her.

"M'randa, more...I can take...so much more." Her voice is slurred....lost to pleasure but with a hint of frustration.  More confident now, I slide a second finger inside of her.  When she tosses her head on the pillow, I hold my breath and add a third.

"Yeeees..." She groans.

I wait a moment to allow her to adjust and honestly to allow for my own heart rate to calm before I slowly move inside of her.  I feel the different textures of her and I find that one spot, high, smooth and firm.

I stroke firmly, quickly inside of her.  It's only a matter of moments until her walls tighten around me.  She calls my name as she comes and she is tugging at my hair.  I slow my movements and stay still inside of her.  My heart is hammering and my muscles are on fire. All of that lovely heat surrounding me. 

I want my mouth on her but I'm at a loss as to how to proceed.  She's boneless at the moment.  It feels quite rude to say, "Andréa would you mind very much sitting up so that I might have you ride my face?"

I've decided that anyone who says sex does not have its awkward moments is a virgin. Still sheathed deeply inside of her, I hear her chuckle.  She starts to shift underneath me, her hands smoothing my hair now.

"You look hungry," She whispers, disengaging from me, "I'm very thirsty.  I think I have a way we can manage it.  Don't you think?"  Her voice is teasing but affectionate.  She rises on her knees before settling on her side...her head...oh God...her head is down near my feet.

Is she really...?  She does know that I'm fifty, right? Before I can get any further into that self-deprecating line of thinking, she's urging me to my side...and what I want is directly in front of me.

I would be a fool to resist...so I do not even try.   Her thighs open, accommodating me as my tongue finds her at last.  I hear her gasps and feel her shudders and then it's my turn as her mouth finds me again. 

I lose my pace...lose my focus...at first, all I can feel is her tongue...her very talented tongue.  Her muffled keening reminds me that I was in the middle of something and I feel her body relax slightly as my tongue returns to her center.

She tastes amazing...fresher than spring water...sweeter than wine.  And every other romantic cliché that passes through my mind is forgotten in the taste of her. 

Her tongue is heaven...I match her stroke for stroke. I feel her pull away from me and I make some sound of disappointment, her voice is breathless when she says, "Together...can you...with me?  With me...please." 

I let my enthusiasm answer for me as she returns to me and we strive together.  It doesn't take long and I feel that subtle tightening around me...she's so close.  I slow down slightly and she gets  the message, speeding up until she feels the answering flutters in me.

It's like a dance...well-choreographed and amazing because we've never done it before.  I feel her go over the edge the sound of her orgasm reverberating through me as she keeps her mouth locked on my center.  It's enough to push me over and I come for her.  Only for her.

Moments pass, with soft touches and gentle murmurs, reassuring kisses and quiet caresses.  Eventually she rises and I open my arms to her.  She smiles and she settles into me, cuddling into my side, her head pillowed now on my shoulder.  She's smiling, but there's a hint of mischief in her beautiful eyes.

"I'm really glad I found that brooch," She teases.  "It really was made for you."

I nod my head while gazing down into luminous brown eyes, I decide to answer truthfully, "No, Andréa.  I was made for you."

___


End file.
